In hushed tones myself, I protested, ‘But that’s ludicrous. I’ve read everything by Mujica Lainez, and I’ve never even heard of such a story.’
Professor Pendleton took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with the handkerchief. ‘Again, not surprising you would say that. I, myself, only read a reference to that story, as it was never published. Just as it was about to go to press, the Peronist censors accused Mujica Lainez of ‘making an apology for the Jewish menace’ and forced him to burn it and all the previous drafts, before they would allow the book’s publication in 1951. Of course, Mujica Lainez’s was a fictional account. However, as he was known for painstaking attention to historical detail, I can only assume he consulted some important source that has since been lost to time.’
Then Professor Pendleton concluded, even more softly, almost inaudibly, ‘But this map of yours proves everything. I’m convinced it’s none other than the flap of skin Discépolo Fernandez cut from his brother’s back, and these rivers are what he carved into it upon instruction from that poor Indian.’
I hardly heard him. It seemed to me the fluorescent lights of the library had become dimmer and dimmer, and the mounds of books in front of me began to blur and fade away. Perhaps it was the excitement of this discovery or the fact that I hadn’t slept well the last few nights. But the shapes of the book stacks, the heavy-petting adolescents, the last-minute study group, swirled around me like a mist, and I felt as if I were being lifted, transported through Time to the scene described by de Amado.
I approached the clearing in the woods, looking at the Indian staked in front of me, face wet with blood, cuts and burns littering his body, as if I were seeing him through Discépolo’s eyes. I tried to look away but couldn’t. Then, with my own hands, I applied the torch and the knife. I forced from him the information I needed, like prying open the lip of an oyster to carve out the pearl. I felt sick in the pit of my stomach, but I continued on, scraping the edge of my knife against his throat, until I heard him scream out the word that reverberated through the woods: ‘Salamanca’!
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Mr Ibañez . . . Mr Ibañez!’ Professor Pendleton’s words reached me as if I were deep inside a cave, and he was shouting from the surface far away. ‘I said, do you grasp the significance of this?’
Rousing myself, as if from a trance, the only word that escaped my dry lips was ‘Salamanca’.
‘Precisely,’ he said, and slammed his open palm down on the table. The other library visitors turned their heads around at this, so he repeated in a hushed tone, ‘Precisely. Who could blame de Amado for thinking that tortured Indian had shouted “God bless the stain”. As sometimes happens with well-educated men, de Amado read too much into the words, thinking “Sallah” was for “God bless” in the Arabic and “mancha” meaning, well, “stain” in Spanish. What do you know about the Salamanca?’
My head was throbbing a bit and my eyes were going in and out of focus. I mumbled, ‘Uh, well, nothing more than the stories my great-uncle used to tell around the campfire on his farm. It’s a witch’s coven or something like that?’
Now, Professor Pendleton’s eyes were twinkling, and I could tell a lecture was coming on. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘No one knows for certain the origin of the word “Salamanca”. Some scholars believe it’s an ironic reference to that great Spanish university of the same name, brought to us by conquistadores from the ancient kingdom of León. Others feel it’s a purely indigenous term, a bastardisation of the Aimará word “Sallamanca”, meaning “the rock below”. I followed the topic, myself, for a few years before my retirement . . . as a sort of hobby, if you will. After all, it’s Argentina’s version of Faust.’
He paused and peered at me through his thick lenses. ‘I say,’ he said, ‘you don’t look altogether well. In fact, you look a little sea sick.’
My head still spinning, I replied, ‘Just let me lay my head down here on the table for a minute. I think it’s the lack of air circulation in here. Doesn’t it ever get to you?’
‘No . . . In fact, I’ve never felt more invigorated,’ he said. He began to rummage amongst the books on the table, saying, ‘In fact, there was a time when I collected every reference on the subject, and it wasn’t easy, mind you, as half of them were forbidden by the Catholic Church and the other half by the Peronist Party. Now, what was I looking for . . . ?’
Still flipping through pages and opening and closing books, he said, ‘What I was saying is that, from comparative linguistics, we know many, isolated cultures share words that bear a striking resemblance to each other. For example, the word for “river” in Greek is “potomus”. In the language of the Delaware Indians it is “Potomac”, and, for a number of tribes in Brazil, it is “poti”. This denotes the imprint of an original, Asian people who crossed the land bridge across the Bering Strait tens of thousands of years ago. As their descendants spread throughout the Americas—the last of which reached Tierra del Fuego—they developed in different ways but they kept their most ancient and powerful words.
Feeling a bit better, I lifted my head and said, ‘So, you’re saying the Aimará and Spanish languages are linked together? I’m not sure I buy that.’
He waved away my doubts with the remains of an ancient sandwich wrapper he’d come across, ‘The epistemological origins aside, there is universal agreement on what the Salamanca is—or what salamancas in the plural are, for these caves are peppered throughout the world—and what goes on there. There is mention of salamancas all the way back to Antiquity. Timarco, for example, chronicled his experiences in the temple-cave dedicated to Trofonoio in Boecia. Moorish invaders, thirsty for the Philosopher’s Stone, used their knowledge of the stars to locate the entranceways in the Iberian wilderness. Mongols, obsessed with gunpowder, made bird and human sacrifices to divine openings under the desert floor. Australian aboriginals threw bones and slit their wrists to gain access to the deep crevices in their caves, where they could learn the secrets of the woomera.’
‘The woomah-what?’ I asked, feeling as if I was recovering from a hangover.
‘You know, the, uh,’ Professor Pendleton made a sort of javelin-throwing gesture, ‘the woomera, a wooden device used by aboriginals to lengthen their arms and, thus, the distance of their spear throw . . . Oh, never mind. I’ve found what I was looking for.’ He raised an old leather-bound tome with a cracked spine, ‘As Granada writes in his 1896 original of Supersticiones del Río de la Plata, those who enter the salamanca earn inexhaustible riches or virtuosity at guitar playing or unerring marksmanship. Why, the idea of the salamanca was once such a part of our popular culture that the great mentalist, Onofroff was accused of gaining his powers from that accursed cave.’
Closing the book carefully, Professor Pendleton put it down and continued, ‘But perhaps the most well-known account of contact with a salamanca is that of Paulo Miranda, a gaucho from the province of San Luis, who sold his soul to the devil at the turn of the twentieth century.
‘One night, while Miranda was watching over a lonely herd, a fellow peon suggested they leave the cattle for a bit and head to a nearby dance. Miranda agreed, and followed his mate down a narrow path through the hills. All they had was a flickering torch to light their way, which did not penetrate but a metre or so the pitch-black night. But, strangely, they walked sure-footed, as if flying over rocks and heavy tufts of grass. Soon they reached the dim outline of the mouth of a cave. Coming from it, they heard beautiful guitar music and enticing female voices.
‘At the entrance, two dwarves bid them strip off their clothes, which Miranda hesitated to do. But emboldened by the sounds of orgiastic ecstasy emanating from within, they shed their clothes and descended into the cave. As they entered, both men shuddered from the sudden cold, and a demonic breath extinguished their torch. They continued on, in the darkness, guided only by the glimmer—which grew increasingly brighter as they descended —of the Hell Fire . . .
‘As the many perversions Miranda partic
ipated in are well known, I’m not going to go into all that. But what’s important is that, when Miranda emerged, sore and bruised, just before daylight, he had the power to break any horse. Under his cruel hands, all horses—no matter how savage, how wild, how devilish—lost their strength and seemed to wither under his reins. Cattle ranchers admired him. All manner of women desired him. He had achieved his life-long dream.
‘Now, I’m sure you’ve heard many stories about the Salamanca like this from the northern provinces: men who went into its depths to become famous dancers, card-players, Don Juans, and each one of them forfeited his soul in return. But not Miranda.
‘The next month, Miranda returned to the cave, but this time without his friend. There, he stripped again in front of the dwarves and descended very carefully—as if in pain—tip-toeing down those slimy passages. Unbeknownst to the guards, Miranda was smuggling a small, silver crucifix up . . . Well, you see, he had inserted . . . I’m not really sure what the medical term for this is . . .’
I laughed at Professor Pendleton’s Victorian sensibilities. I said, ‘You mean . . . he shoved it up his ass?’
‘Quite,’ Professor Pendleton said. ‘Thank you for the anatomical specificity. Miranda participated in the usual rites, smeared the human fat upon his body, drank the forbidden wine. But then, just at the height of orgiastic frenzy, just as he was about to be straddled by the half-man/half-goat, he reached his fingers deep inside himself and carefully extricated the uncomfortable symbol.
‘At the sight of this, the holiest of signs within the darkest of covens, the demons erupted into carbuncles of pus and blood. They ruptured and dissolved into pools of corrupt flesh. The damned mortals, meanwhile, went mad, scattering everywhere, running headlong into each other, falling down into the cracks of hell. Everything was lit afire, and the hellish breath turned to scorching steam that blinded him.
‘Miranda awoke in an empty field, his eyebrows singed off, the crucifix warm, its cross-arms twisted in his hand. He had destroyed the coven. He is the only one known to have wriggled out of the pact, to have received a gift without losing his soul to Lucifer in return.’
Leaning over the mass of books, some falling over and skidding to the floor, Professor Pendleton said, ‘You know, I haven’t asked you why you’re so interested in this map. Which is strange, because I’m a man of insatiable curiosity.’
I began to say something, something that would be close enough to the truth, so I didn’t feel like I was lying to this dear old man, ‘You know, it’s for an article I’m writing for . . .’
‘Miguel,’ he said, and I was struck by the fact that this was the first time in all these years he hadn’t called me ‘Mr Ibañez’. ‘Before you lie to me, why don’t you stop lying to yourself? Why do you think I went looking for the Salamanca when I reached retirement age? My life, my whole life since I was fifteen, has been dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, to a mission to improve the world through philosophy. But I felt like I still hadn’t done enough.’
I held my breath and asked, ‘And did you . . . ?’
‘No . . . but I was very close. I’d gathered enough materials, engaged in, well . . . rituals. I could feel things coming together. I could feel things slow down. It’s a strange sensation, very difficult to describe, but I . . . but it’s never enough, Miguel. There’s never going to be enough time to do the things you felt you should have done. You just have to be satisfied with . . .’
‘Satisfied . . . satisfied?’ I cried. ‘Look at me . . . and look at you. You’re at the top of your profession, you’ve changed the way the world thinks. Your books,’ I became choked with emotion, ‘your books have shaped my life and the lives of everyone who ever read them. And what the fuck have I done? In a hundred years, they’ll still be talking about you at the university. If I quit my job tomorrow, it’d be months before someone asked, “Hey, whatever happened to what’s-his-name?” ’
‘Miguel, there’s more to life than . . .’
‘Than what? Than achievement? It’s so easy for you to say. I can guess why you didn’t finish your search for the Salamanca. It’s because you’ve got everything you ever wanted, and you’d be a greedy shit to ask for more.’
I got up quickly, knocking over my chair. I didn’t want to leave like that. I wanted to apologise, I wanted to tell him about The Lives of the Saints, I wanted to ask him what I should do with my life. But I didn’t. I just turned around and left the room.
Over my shoulder, I heard Professor Pendleton say, ‘Wait, Miguel. Don’t do it. You have no idea the price you’ll . . .’
The rest of his words were lost as the door to the hemeroteca closed behind me, and all I could hear was the buzzing of the elevator alarm. I never saw Professor Pendleton alive again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A few days later, I got to work—late again. I’d had another fight with Julieta. This time I don’t even know what it was about.
When I got to my desk, I saw a letter waiting for me. Picking it up, I could tell by the smooth, graceful handwriting it was from Professor Pendleton. As I turned it over, I saw the letter had been opened and resealed, so well that I almost didn’t notice. But I remember how my mother used to open up my father’s letters when he was away on business trips, over a pot of boiling water, and then reseal the flaps with a dab of glue. And I could tell an expert had opened this one.
‘Hey, Esteban, know anything about this envelope on my desk?’
‘Nope,’ he called over the divider. ‘It was here when I got here.’
‘And you didn’t open it?’
‘Naw, man. You know me. That would go against everything I believe in.’
That was true. Esteban was capable of a lot of things, but he had a strange, moral code about respecting other people’s privacy.
As I opened it up, I saw it was, indeed, a card from Professor Pendleton. In beautiful, flourishing script, it read, ‘I do not agree with you, but I respect your right to know. Don’t trust anyone.’
I turned the card over. On the other side, printed in gold Art Deco script were the words, ‘You are formally invited to a meeting of the Saint Perpetuus Club. Midnight. Tempus fugit.’ Below, was the address of a private house in Buenos Aires, with that very day’s date.
***
I approached the mansion with some trepidation.
I’m not going to give the street address, because I don’t want you to recognise the place, as much for my sake as for the sake of the people I met there that night. Suffice it to say the house is one of the city’s stubborn reminders of her glorious past that has refused to yield to a shopping mall or to a parking lot or to one of those terrible, high-rise ‘serviced’ condos. I’m not giving too much away if I say that, like other relics from the Belle Epoque, it’s surrounded by a wrought-iron fence studded with scarabs, angel heads and lotus blossoms in full bloom.
As I tramped down the gravel path, flickering red Chinese lanterns lighting my way, the absurd nature of my visit became apparent. I’d lied to Julieta on the phone that afternoon, saying I was staying late to do some research for the upcoming conference.
And what did I expect to achieve with my deceit? Did I really think this mansion held the entrance to a Salamanca, to a secret coven? And if it existed, did it really hold the key to some hidden power beneath the city, to the power of Time Travel itself?
The closer I got to the front steps, the more likely it seemed that this was some sort of hoax. What if Bernardina and Dr Pendleton were, somehow, in this together? Or maybe this was another of Esteban’s practical jokes? If Gutierrez had a brain—which he didn’t—I’d suspect him of planting Lives of the Saints at Bernardo’s bookstore just to drive me insane.
But, no, barring some elaborate plot, I was fairly convinced that the Saint Perpetuus Club did exist. After all, this house was real, and, from the low murmur of voices I heard as I approached, people were inside.
I walked up the short marble steps, a smooth impression worn into the c
entre of them by endless guests, and rang the doorbell. The door opened almost immediately, and the quintessential British butler stood there, so old he seemed timeless. Receding silver hairline, you could see the bones showing through his near-transparent temples. He held out a silver tray.
I stammered, ‘I’m here for the . . . the . . . I’ve got a formal invitation,’ and I raised the letter Professor Pendleton had sent me.
‘Your business card, Sir,’ was all he said in response.
‘My business card?’ I hadn’t been expecting to make a formal presentation at a black mass, so I fished around in my front pockets until I finally pulled out a wrinkled business card that had survived last week’s laundry. Ink-stained, the edges curling up, it looked so pitiful on the tray, ‘Assistant to the Assistant to the Assistant Director.’ If there’d been more space on the card, I’m sure Gutierrez would have stuck in the word ‘Assistant’ at least once more. Assistant asshole, I thought.
Without looking at my card, the butler disappeared, closing the door noiselessly behind him. I was just gathering my thoughts, when he returned so suddenly I assumed he’d been instructed to set the dogs on me, so I began to stammer some excuse, ‘I—I thought this was a mistake. I’m sorry I . . .’
But, the stone-faced butler said, ‘Madame says you may enter.’
He led me through the grand entrance way. Under an enormous crystal chandelier, we stopped in front of an oversized version of the ‘Vampyre’ by Munch. (I’m no expert, but it looked like an original to me.) Unlike other versions, however, the woman with the flaming red hair sinking her teeth into the man’s neck was staring straight at me with intensely-unsettling, emerald eyes. The butler disappeared through a door and left me at the coat-check closet with the maid.
The St Perpetuus Club of Buenos Aires Page 11
